


Holistic Havoc

by 1031198, QueerQuaking



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Blood and Violence, Denial, Drug Abuse, Grief, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Manic Episode, Post manic episode, Recreational Drug Use, Toxic Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wakes & Funerals, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23616820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1031198/pseuds/1031198, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerQuaking/pseuds/QueerQuaking
Summary: After leaving Mickey bloody and bruised in their shared apartment, Ian copes with the fallout of a destructive manic episode.Sequel to "Heart Monitor Hedonism"
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	Holistic Havoc

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read "Heart Monitor Hedonism" this may not entirely make sense, but with some reading-between-the-lines, it can be read as a stand-alone. Be aware that there are quite a few triggers associated with this fic: read at your own risk.

Ian gazed down at the mess he had created at his feet. His husband, barely recognizable and in an inhuman position, was slowly drenching the carpet in an ocean of his own blood. Still, Ian didn’t feel an emotion of any kind in that moment; in fact, he felt almost dead. He was dissociated, as if this was an odd dream that he had conjured of his own accord, left to leave a faceless, nameless being to rot on his carpet simply for the pleasure of the act. He knew that what he did was going to cost him something that he would certainly feel and could, quite possibly, come in the form of enough pain to end his life. That too was something that he couldn’t find himself upset about. There was no possibility of the light, hazy delusion of mania leaving soon enough to make him want to try and fix the horrible mistake he had made. His eyes did one more prompt scan over the body before he was leaning down to push the slightly sweat-damped black hair from over the eyes of his previous lover. A soft kiss was placed over a dark purple bruise on the cheekbone, a simple whisper of lips against raised skin. Standing back up, he stretched his arms up behind his head and mumbled entirely to himself, “How could I ever love someone like you anyway?”

The disgust that marred his face quickly contorted when he heard a firm knock on the door. He didn’t stick around long enough to find out who it was; the back door was calling his name. He ran out, not looking back. He had so many plans. There was so much fun to be had now that he didn’t have to play house and pretend to love someone so disgustingly dull and vile. He grinned much too wide as he ran, a pulling of skin so taut that it threatened to split his cheeks from ear to ear, and a hysterical chuckle tore from his throat at the mere thought of the subsequent gore. The wind was hitting his face in a way that made him feel as if he was flying far above the mortal realm, evoking another fit of breathless, deranged laughter from his lungs. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to keep running, until he spotted The Fairy Tale club. Without a second thought, he was pushing through a crowd of people. A crowd of men. Men that would provide him with the most fun he had experienced since his pathetic joining of matrimony with the lifeless creature he left behind. He felt invincible, superior, and he held his head high as he scanned the dance floor for possible victims. He danced with a few older men, letting them touch him in places that no one had since Mickey, letting them do anything they wanted simply because he was no longer tethered to a single individual. 

After some dancing, some feeling, some grinding, he found that this just wasn’t enough. He felt so alive, as if his world was flying, yet the rest of the world was moving far too slowly to be acceptable. This, of course, was rage-inducing. He felt his blood begin to boil under his skin, and his eyes flashed menacingly against the fluorescent lighting. What was the best cure to a hair-tearingly tedious world? The strongest alcohol and the hardest drugs that he could get his hands on, logically. The second that a shot was placed in his hands and cocaine was lined out in front of him was when the world began to speed up around him once again. He felt his anger fade away, being replaced with a warm, tingly feeling as the flashing lights blurred together, and the sea of bodies on the dance floor became one swaying entity. While dancing in a drug-induced daze was fun, grinding against the men in various states of undress and inebriety allowed him a sense of liberated empowerment that he hadn’t undergone recently. 

Throughout the chaos of the club, Ian’s shirt had somehow disappeared. As he poured himself his sixth shot, straight from the bottle that he had torn from the exasperated bartender’s hands, he realized the expanse of his torso was marred in glittery paint. When the fuck had that happened? He considered briefly, before guzzling the rest of the harsh, amber liquid. The music, blaring, pounding EDM, seemed to ignite his veins further, the euphoria deluding his rationale. The feeling was an absolute illusion, one that would never be perceived by someone in their right mind, yet it was a default for someone who was high on cocaine and almost too drunk to walk. He felt absolutely raw and undefined, his memories of before a mere drink away from being completely erased. His personality didn’t exist in such an environment. The only thing existing here was the line of powder, the bottle in his hand, and the feeling of men feeling his body up. His mind wasn’t even reeling like it would be normally, given the circumstances. He felt exuberant; that is, until the drugs and alcohol collided and handed his brain over to the black, forlorn world of unconsciousness. 

The next day, he awoke in an alleyway. His head was in searing pain and his stomach was doing backflips. With a grunt he sat up as best he could against the nearest wall. A flare of pain radiated down the back of his head and into his spine. He could really use a few aspirin or maybe a hit of weed. The idea alone was enough to rouse him. As he pulled himself up from the ground, he felt as if the pavement was dipping, swaying, as it seemed to incline with him. He was so dizzy that he staggered to the side, off-balance, and if it hadn’t been for the dumpster mercifully placed there he would’ve met the concrete once again. He straightened his stance, the dulled sunbeams sending another course of pain flashing miserably behind his eyes.

Using the walls of the various buildings comprising the alley as safeguards from kissing the pavement, Ian began to slowly make his way to the main road once more. He realized as pedestrians stared at his pathetic display of mobility that the former may not be the only reason they were staring; rather, his state of undress, clad in only a pair of skin-tight, scandalously short shorts, was a likely culprit. He didn’t bother to lower his eyes, instead making direct visual contact with every scarred viewer if only in hopes of one being brave enough to make a snide remark or spark a fight. His head was fuzzy from the hangover, but the fire that was slowly, agonizingly burning through his veins urged him towards the Fairy Tale club once more. 

That day and the one following both passed in a hazy blur of drug and alcohol-induced stupor, grandiose delusion, and a copious amount of meaningless sex. Every time a rational, painful thought would dare to grace his mind, he would immediately quench it with a line of cocaine or by giving some random, faceless man an overly energetic lapdance. He allowed the days to pass as seconds, the club’s flashing lights becoming his energy source, and the murkiness of reality fading into mere background noise.

In the afternoon of what, with a long pause for consideration, was assumed to be the fourth day, Ian awoke hungry. Unlike the previous afternoon, however, this hunger wasn’t a craving for numbing inebriety or a warm hole to push into, but rather for actual food. Before he opened his eyes, before the throbbing of hangover even registered, Ian immediately found himself craving anything even vaguely edible. Something to quell the ravenousness. Instead of picking himself up off of the alley floor to stagger back to Fairy Tale, he picked himself up off of the alley floor to find some damn food. As he reached into his pocket, finding a lone five-dollar bill that he had no recollection of procuring, his thoughts began to wander to Mickey. Though that wasn’t uncommon–his thoughts always seemed to be heading in that particular direction–this fateful afternoon was the first time in days that he actually allowed himself to experience those thoughts, however briefly. He exited the alley, different from the previous two yet still visually identical, and attempted to find any restaurant that would serve him a large helping of food for a small price. He pushed the thoughts of Mickey to the back burner, as he had done so frequently as of late, and stumbled into the nearest Wendy’s. 

After placing his order, requesting the prices of almost every menu item from the frazzled cashier so as to not go over his minute availability of cash, he sat in a worn booth to quickly scarf down the contents of the slightly greasy paper bag. Once he finished, far too rapidly, he stood and stretched before beginning the long walk back to his neighborhood. On his way home, however, the thoughts of Mickey made yet another tragically hindering appearance to his previously acceptable mood. 

Upon arriving outside of the apartment building, the solemn, slightly subdued thoughts became a string of chaotic and unnerving memories flowing into his brain. Without warning, a slideshow appeared that was composed entirely of picture-esque recollections of his husband throughout the years. The broken shards of his childhood, the first time they kissed and the time he went to Mexico were all there. Images of the wedding slipped into his thoughts, existing purely to taunt him. He could remember the feeling of that day. The purest, most elated feeling in existence: the feeling of Mickey becoming his. He didn’t even realize that tears were slowly dripping down his freckled cheeks. These tears didn’t become a full downpour, however, until the images of his husband getting punched, kicked, and transformed into something unrecognizably bloody while struggling to breathe on the floor burned themselves into his mind. 

Before he could process what he was doing, he was running into the building. The lady at the desk observed him in an uninterested fashion, but it’s not like that mattered to him in the moment. The only thing that mattered was making sure his baby was okay. The elevator ride felt like it was an ascent to the top of earth’s atmosphere–it took forever to finally get to the third floor. His legs burned as he ran straight to the correct apartment, concurrently fumbling in his pockets for the only things left in them: his keys and cellphone. His hands were shaking so bad that it took a few tries to get the key into the lock and turned in the proper direction, but with effort he accomplished it in a time that could be considered only slightly embarrassing. 

With shoving the door roughly open, the smell hit him first. The apartment smelled strongly of copper and, to his discontent, held an air of decay. Panic filled all of his senses when he saw a bloody trail leading to the living room. Upon entering the small room he saw that there was blood everywhere. It stained the carpet, couch, and even a couple of the walls, but there still wasn’t any trace of Mickey being there. He tried to reason with his thoughts, tried to make it seem like nothing happened and that his husband had just gone to stay somewhere else for a while, but he couldn’t be fooled. With the amount of blood that marred everything in sight, it was highly unlikely that Mickey had walked out of there.

The next thing he tried was frantically calling the smaller male. The first time it immediately went to voicemail, but it was still soothing to just hear his husband’s voice in the answering machine, no mind to how crass it sounded. The other ten, twenty tries also landed him in the frustrating realm of "leave me a fucking message". He felt like he was going to lose it again, felt like he needed some more alcohol or another line of cocaine to help quell his urge to do something stupid or crazy. It was a terrible feeling, the uncontrollable need for anything to soothe the darkly swirling impulses. 

Next, he tried calling Mandy. Logically, if Mickey had found some way to drag himself out of the apartment, he would have gone to stay with his sister. After some broken ringing and steeply falling hopes, it went to voicemail also. He cursed under his breath, throwing his phone roughly against the nearest wall. The screen of the device shattered and the drywall chipped away from the unpainted surface of the plaster. He took a deep, shaky breath before it dawned on him that he had yet to check the entirety of their apartment.

“Mick? Mick, I’m so sorry, are you here?” He called, his voice wavering as he loudly did an almost-run through the narrow, cluttered halls.

His eyes locked onto every surface, searching for any clue that his husband was there. Nothing. There were no answers and he felt like the world was ending because of it. Using the wall for support, he slid down to the floor and let his head fall to rest on his knees. His breathing picked up to a rapid pace, and he started to panic. His nails dug into the soft skin just above his knees, and he could’ve sworn that he was dying. This caused his breathing to become more rugged and rapid. He felt that same impending feeling of dread wash over him for what seemed like an eternity as his fingertips began tingling and the world began spinning nauseatingly. 

An unidentifiable amount of time passed before he willed himself to stop inhaling so sharply and to let his muscles relax. His head lolled back, a migraine beginning to form between his temples. Once he felt grounded enough, he slowly got up from the hard ground and leaned heavily against the flat expanse of the wall. He rested his forehead against it, evening his breathing as he had learned so thoroughly how to do in group therapy during his time in psychiatric care. His heart rate began to slow, and the tingling in his limbs faded away. As soon as he was certain that he was no longer going to pass out, he grabbed his–probably broken–phone from across the room, before exiting the apartment at an aggressively fast pace.

He strode quickly down the sidewalk, not quite jogging but not quite walking either. His heart had begun its insistent pounding in his ears once more, and he struggled to keep his breathing even. He didn’t bother to knock on the Milkovich’s door before entering, instead flinging it open roughly, panicked. 

“Mandy? Mickey? Anyone here?” He began loudly, dropping his phone onto the nearest table and trudging towards Mickey’s designated bedroom. 

He flung the door open causing the homemade cardboard sign on the outside to sway wildly as he did so. The first thing he noticed upon entering was the blood-stained shirt laying haphazardly on the ground. The second, however, was the undiluted sobbing coming from the adjacent bathroom. 

“Mick? ‘S that you?” He knocked lightly on the door, receiving no answer, only more broken weeping in return. He slowly turned the knob, allowing the door the creak open on its own. 

Nothing, not even beating his husband within an inch of his life, could have prepared him from the sight before him. Mandy, who looked the most disheveled and out of control as Ian had ever seen her, was clutching the limp form of a person. The image was horrendously beautiful. Black hair, lightly dusted freckles, full pink lips, and lifeless, glassy blue eyes. Ian couldn’t look away, couldn’t even blink. He felt heat rising up his throat, the feeling of complete tribulation choking him up. The only word able to escape his mouth before he was tumbling to the linoleum in front of the body was a cracked no.

Suddenly, he was bawling right along with his sister-in-law. His hand had somehow ended up squeezing the limp wrist, a hollow feeling rising through his chest when he felt no heartbeat. His abusive tendencies had finally come to fulfillment, and apparently that had been too much for Mickey. His actions, however, also ended up killing a piece of all the people that loved the smaller male. Right now, however, that list of people included only himself and Mandy. 

They sat like that for an elongated amount of time before another voice cut into the still silence surrounding them. “Mickey? It’s Lip. I have to tell you something, where are you?” 

It took a second for either of them to interpret what was being said, asked. They didn’t have enough time to even decide what to do about the intruder before said intruder was trudging into the room. “Mi-”

Wide eyes and a look of complete shock fell over Lip’s face. It only lasted a second before obvious rage replaced it. “Ian! What the hell did you do?” The aggression was evident in his voice, and suddenly, Lip was lunging toward his brother. 

Ian looked terrified but still managed to get up and run almost all the way to the street. Lip was somehow faster in that moment, and he was able to grab Ian by the back of the shirt before he set foot on the concrete sidewalk. Ian’s body flew forward, causing his brother to land on top of him. In between punches, the redhead was able to get out that he didn’t do anything to Mickey and that he had no fucking clue what had happened.

The words didn’t even register in the older male’s mind, though, because he kept on landing brutal punch after punch to Ian’s face, a lone ring on his middle finger leaving gaping gashes in its wake. Ian tried to fight back, but had too much on his mind to be able to focus. The grief that was beginning to set in after seeing Mickey’s drained form on the bathroom floor would be at the top of that list. In the end, Lip managed to make a mess out of the redhead’s face before he finally backed off, sucking in deep gulps of air like oxygen was disappearing from the atmosphere. His eyes held the most blatant disdain that Ian had ever witnessed, the look easily making Ian feel much, much smaller than his six-foot form. It was certainly scary. He didn’t even say one more word before storming back inside the house and slamming the screen door violently shut behind him.

Ian felt the sun skim across his body, and blood drip lazily from multiple lacerations on his face. He almost felt relieved to have Lip react in such a way; the pain made him feel an all-too-familiar rush of adrenaline and dopamine spilling like ecstasy into his veins. He ungracefully got to his feet, staggering slightly, and began half-limping towards his previously-shared apartment. Still, the sadness, the anger, the betrayal that threatened to consume him seemed to seep in slowly, deterred by the epinephrine and other various neurotransmitters that had been released by his body to fight off the effects of the wounds he had endured. 

As he rounded a corner, he noticed a slovenly man wearing baggy clothing who had his jacket hood covering his hair and eyes. He approached the man silently, bumping him with his shoulder lightly and slipping him a twenty-dollar bill as discreetly as possible. The man didn’t look up, simply reaching into his jacket and sliding Ian a small bag of white powder. The bag was placed in his pocket promptly and he walked away casually, attempting not to allow his mind to fill with excruciating considerations.

As soon as he breached the doorway of the apartment, he was scrambling to roll a dollar bill tightly enough, lining the powdered substance on the cluttered kitchen counter. After ceaselessly inhaling about three-quarters of the bag, he allowed himself to fall back into a slightly rickety chair. He took a deep breath, allowing the warmth of substance abuse to seep into his bloodstream. His mind became foggier, the world became brighter, and his circumstances became better, all in the blink of an eye. Suddenly, he felt alive again. The heaviness of loss no longer weighed upon his lungs; instead, he felt so light that he could almost feel the air beneath his feet when he moved. 

A few hours and quick trips to the street-corner later, and Ian could barely remember the year, much less the demise of his former lover. He, naturally, had bought a pint of whiskey to accompany the copious amount of cocaine, and he soon found himself dancing clumsily to whatever song he could find on the radio. Small giggles escaped his lips as he tripped over his own feet, the artificial euphoria doing wonders for his outlook on the situation. He continued like this for an unknown period of time: drinking, doing drugs, and dragging his feet blearily across the available floor space. The outside world faded away, leaving only the dim light of the apartment and the stale scent of alcohol.

Three days later, and word of Mickey’s so-called erratic and tragic suicide had spread like a wildfire. The funeral was set in a modest church, inappropriately cheerful red flowers and feebly flickering white candles littered around the open casket. Everyone was adorned in black, and an organist played solely in the corner. A large crowd had gathered into the stuffy building, many only in presence for the free pastries that had been provided by an empathetic foundation for preventing early suicides. Nonetheless, most of the people had their heads bowed, and tears streamed endlessly down the faces of those Mickey had been closest to. At exactly noon, a priest called for everyone to be seated on the wooden pews, and began his predetermined script that had been submitted collectively by the remaining Milkovichs. 

After a few songs and scriptures, the priest asked for those who would like to say a few parting words to come forward. Mandy stood first, tears still fresh on her cheeks as she began to make her way to the microphone. As she stepped up the slight incline to the altar, the church doors were flung wide open. In the entryway stood Ian, breathing heavily and shakily, eyes wide and bloodshot. He staggered into the open space, leaning against the nearest items for support.

“He’s not-” He began, words slurring, before hiccuping slightly and trying again, “He’s not dead.” He was quite evidently under the influence of a heavy substance, and those in attendance were all staring at him with shocked expressions. Mandy’s shock, however, quickly and visibly melted into rage. 

She addressed a nearby security officer that was leaning against the back wall of the church and gaping openly. “Get him the fuck out of here.” 

Ian didn’t move, undeterred as the sizable man approached him menacingly. He swayed toward the casket, reaching to roughly shake the corpse within. “Wake the fuck up man, c’mon, get up. Show ‘em you’re fine, get up.” His words spilled quickly, pressuredly rushing from his lungs as he attempted to wake Mickey from his eternal slumber.

The guard rushed towards him, roughly grabbing Ian around the middle and pinning his arms tightly against his sides. Ian struggled against him, attempting to slam his head back into the man’s chin to no avail. He felt himself beginning to be dragged towards the door, and he began desperately writhing in the guard's relentless hold.

“Fuck, let go of me. Mickey, get up, shit, just fuckin’ get up already-” The church door slammed behind the guard like the closing of a curtain at the end of a performance. It sobered Ian’s mind in a way, giving finality to the situation that he had yet to experience. He fell limp, dropping unceremoniously to the sidewalk outside as the guard reentered the continuation of the funeral. 

Ian sat like that for a moment, drug-addled mind fighting to figure out what the hell was happening. In the afternoon air, the sun shone in a rare occurrence, the birds chirped contentedly, and a warm breeze tickled his cheeks pleasantly. It didn’t feel right, the literal and figurative warmth in the air as the light of his life lay snuffed-out in the confines of the church. Ian found himself tearing the door to the nearest vehicle open, making quick work of searching for a spare key that the unfortunate owner had left naively in the visor. He jammed the key into the ignition, turned it shakily, and sped away from the building as quickly as the motor would allow him.


End file.
